


⋔sporktacular⋔

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Moulin Rouge! (2001), Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Humor, Nightmares, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23662750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Malcolm has one hell of a nightmare with some sporks - aka the Prodigal Son/Moulin Rouge! crossover.Jameena's prompt was to write a whumpy story with Malcolm and a spork, with the requirement that it had to be 321 words. She is the one to thank for this fic's existence.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	⋔sporktacular⋔

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts).



“Sporktacular, sporktacular! _No words in the vernacular_.”

Sporks twirled in figure eights in Malcolm’s vision.

“ _Can describe this great event — you’ll be dumb with wonderment_.”

Dollar bills shot at him from every direction, paying for the performance. The sporks stood at attention, tilting all of their fine heads toward him.

At a cable’s snap, all the sporks started the Can Can, leaning into each other’s shoulders and kicking their handles into the air. Their tines waved through the undulating movement, the collective taking turns every other spork at who was kicking and who was providing a shoulder to lean on.

The rhythmic dance captured his attention, the room narrowing to only their movement. “ _So exciting_ ,” the tines curled to him, welcoming him further into the depths of their circle. “ _So delighting_ ,” as the dance came closer to him, they teased under his chin, reflected his face in their surfaces, a rotating fun house of mirrors. The center of attention, he drifted deeper into the void.

“ _And in the end should someone die?_ “ Dr. Whitly’s voice imparted his demonic grin, having masterfully conducted all of his sporks to their conclusion.

The cable snapped and all the sporks shot at Malcolm, spearing him with their well-groomed tines. A hundred piranhas gnawing through his chest, digging for bits of memorabilia to bring back to their master.

Malcolm woke shrieking, his fingernails ripping his chest to shreds. His cries careened off the ceiling and returned for a second pass when he discovered his fingertips were covered in blood. He fumbled out of his cuffs’ clasp, stumbling to the bathroom to stem the streams whence his chest had been eaten.

He could _never_ see another spork again. He’d avoid the barrage of _Moulin Rouge!_ posters at all cost.

Great thing he was due back at Claremont for dinner.

Maybe it was time for a spoon.

Or a fork.

Gabrielle would know. She’d find his nightmare —

_Sporktacular!_


End file.
